Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
“Not on purpose,” Justine protested, only to be drowned out by the uproar of accusations. Bruno, who would probably have befriended Richard III, put a paper crown on her head anyway, and she held the other in her hand a moment, stymied at which male relative to name her king. She finally chose Sébastien and offered her crown to me, but I shook my head. If I couldn’t be chosen by the fève itself, I was not going to accept any hand-me-down queenships, thank you very much.
A fève was once, in its linguistic and historical origins, a dried bean baked into the cake, but fèves have long since developed into little figurines in an infinite variety of motifs. Our fèves were generic examples from whatever bakery was most convenient to Martine’s route, but they provoked rich reminiscences. The stories of the different fèves people had seen ranged from exquisite handcrafted creations of great elegance to, er, erect penises.
“Zob!” Bruno cried out at that memory, riveted with inspiration. He sprang to his feet and swept up a fourth crown to place on his head, where it balanced precariously on top of the one he had won on his own account, the one he had stolen from his consort Titi, and the one Justine had been too cool to wear long. We had now been at the table for at least ten hours, and alcohol had flowed. Bruno executed a sexy hip movement to get things started.
“Oh, no.” Titi buried his head in his hand.
Bruno ignored him and burst into full-throated song.
En revenant de Paris, jusqu’à Nantes,
Oh! lala, oh, lala, lala, lala, lala,
En revenant de Paris, jusqu’à Nantes,
Tiens, voilà mon zob, zob, zob,
Tiens, voilà mon zob, zobi!
(Coming back from Paris to Nantes,
Oh, lala, etc.
Look, here is my zob, zob, zob!)
“Zob!” Bruno directed his hysterical audience, waving his knife like a conductor who had sipped a little too much during intermission. “Zob! Zob!” cried everyone else, including Titi. René, standing on his tiptoes, bellowed “Zob!” at the top of his lungs with every refrain, laughing with delight, his eyes gleefully alive.
J’ai rencontré trois jeunes filles charmantes,
Oh! lala, oh, lala, lala, lala, lala,
J’ai rencontré trois jeunes filles charmantes,
Tiens, voilà mon zob, zob, zob,
Tiens, voilà mon zob, zobi!
(I met three charming young girls, etc.
Look, here is my zob, zob, zob!)
Sébastien and Jean-Charles pounded the table with each resounding “Zob!” Justine covered her mouth to try to stop laughing so hard, and we all swayed back and forth as we sang the one part I could master, “Zob! Zob! Zob!”
I do think it was perfectly natural of me to assume “zob” was a nonsense word, like the “Oh! lala” part. I mean, grandparents and grandchildren were present. Grandparents and grandchildren were singing it.